Off to the Races
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: The five things that happened that summer, and the one thing that didn't. Post 1x22. Lizzington.


_**A/N- I'm still working on my post-ep for "The Front" but in the meantime I give you hungry reader this. The premise: five things that happened that summer plus the one thing that didn't. I've written everything so that it could totally be canon. That being said, there's some sexiness in one part of it, but the majority is pretty mild. Feedback and comments are much appreciated. Disclaimed, babes.**_

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She finds him by the pool.

Her phone is clasped in her hand, ready to call Aram with the new name, pulse a steady tattoo like the beating down of rays on her back. Streaking her hair with sun-kissed highlights, not her old Baltimore, far from. She's not in Nebraska anymore. The mystic, expensive tiling by the pool gleans navy with hot orange petals like flowers, like round here, there should be flowers in her hair. Elizabeth Keen gazes out and realizes this water is the cleanest, clearest thing she's seen in a long time.

Lizzie licks her lips. She makes her hand a visor.

"Red?"

She's taken aback by the way she finds him, that July afternoon.

What little hair he has left is dark blonde, silver around the temples. His hat is missing, but the glasses are familiarity, a sight she's grown so close to adoring, if there is such a thing for infamous criminals. It's almost been a year, she realizes, since he surrendered to the throne of her life, since he inexplicably tied them together with blackmail and a blacklist. Lizzie takes in his swim trunks, the way he's looking at her with such an intensity that it dries her mouth. And all be damned if it doesn't make her shiver in the hundred degree weather. Then she hears him say, "Strip down."

And there, right then- that's the moment Elizabeth Keen internally loses her shit.

"_What?" _ she splutters, nearly stumbling backwards over a handheld net.

Red's eyebrow arches, and he moves into a sitting position from where he was lain back on a plastic chair- it becomes increasingly clear what she heard hadn't been the first thing out of his mouth. But Red doesn't pick at her, Red doesn't allude to having understood where her train of thought was leading, like she fully expects him to take advantage. Instead, he stands tall, moves closer, and motions to a nearby table.

"It has come to my attention that you are an utter workaholic," he explains dramatically. "I've given you the day off. The vitamin D will be good for you."

He hands her a bag, a bag that says _Victoria's Secret _on the side of it, and for a very, very fleeting moment, Lizzie wonders if this is all the foreplay of an erotic dream.

"What?" she asks again, stupidly. She doesn't know what else to say.

"Mr. Kaplan picked it out," he informs her, precise, and Lizzie parts the tissue paper to see the red of the swim material. Crimson. Blood.

Fuck-me-senseless red.

"It's a swimsuit," Lizzie acknowledges, for her own sake. "You want me to swim. Here." Lizzie eyes the water again.

Parallel universe. This has to be either an pseudo-raunchy dream, or a ludicrous, parallel universe where pigs are doing aerial ballet. One of the other. There is no other alternative, because apparently _Mr. Kaplan_ picked out a swimsuit for her. A skimpy, expensive swimsuit. But then Red isn't kissing her, Red isn't pushing her down onto the concrete and making her his. So, maybe she can rely on reality for a moment or two more.

"You're quite welcome to spend your day of siesta here. Dembe is at the liquor store now, actually. It's up to you, Lizzie. Here, or back in your empty hotel room. Your choice."

She narrows her eyes at him, looks back down at the bag in her hand.

The truth is- with Tom, with Berlin, with Meera, with hotel rooms, with loss, with all this fuddled up disarray in her head- the idea of a day at the pool sounds enjoyable. This sounds like a _good _idea, if only for today, if only in this dream. Red looks real. Red never ceases to make her feel like the realest person in the galaxy.

Lizzie shrugs her shoulders.

"Where should I change?" she asks him quietly.

/

Once she has the thing on, Lizzie doesn't look at herself in the mirror.

She doesn't focus on how pale she is, on the stretch marks on the back of her thighs and the halo of her hipbones. It's not important to take note of the way the scant cloth covers only just enough of her crotch, how she's so glad she shaved for leisure two, three days prior to this surprise showing. Lizzie doesn't give into vanity, because it's not necessary. Why would she be self-conscious of Raymond Reddington seeing her in a bikini?

The answer is: she wouldn't be.

Because she doesn't think of him like that.

He's a criminal with a big pool. He barely has any hair.

She doesn't think of him like that because he doesn't think of her like that.

Because of these truths, Lizzie doesn't take a pause before padding through the air conditioned mansion, hair jostling with her movements. She doesn't try and cover herself with a towel, just strides, opens the door onto the back patio, rebounding against the blinding, effervescent light once again. She walks without fear of her thighs jiggling because Tom has left her with a knack for small meals once a day, and she never quite stopped running like she was a trainee.

And even if she didn't look at herself, Red makes up for her bypassing in full.

He doesn't openly ogle her, doesn't eye her like a high-class prostitute carrying his drinks. He just reclines further back against the white, plastic chair, clears his throat like it's not one of his tells. As if it doesn't sound like gravel's been placed scattered across his vocal chords.

"Red is your color," he gives her, finally. Husky. Low.

That's it, though. Nothing else.

Lizzie moves to an opposite chair that he'd set up for her, sighing as her dogs stop barking the moment she sits down. She feels loud and strong and alive, and she catches the shade of the swimsuit against her skin. Perfect.

"I know."

/

So Dembe comes back and his smile is bleach against his skin, and they get drunk. They, all three, get so very drunk. It's the first time she's ever recognized that she could relax like college friends, the class of class, but without the cognac and the suits. Dembe makes margaritas like that one restaurant in Santa Fe. God, she and Tom had been there for their first anniversary only two years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. God, she loves limes.

She'll burn. She'll be a lobster tomorrow.

But something about the idea of asking for sunscreen, of putting it on in front of the infamous, cutting Red Reddington, there's something about the idea of asking him to put it on her back for her. There's something about the idea of him willingly volunteering that makes her blood swim in her veins, makes her want to tear open her chest, makes her want to rub her thighs together and write a song that says _this is how I want, this is how I need._

Later, she won't remember particulars of how the day went, what they drank, or what exact conversations transpired. She just remembers it being _good. _It was a _good _day.

And suddenly everyone is wet and up to their chests in chlorine-smelling bliss, and Lizzie closes her eyes against the backdrop of alcohol and strangely easy quips to imagine Red putting sunscreen on her back, on her chest, on her stomach, on her thighs. The smooth silk of the concoction, white on his fingers. Lizzie imagines putting her hand on his hand. Lizzie imagines guiding his fingers between her legs, imagines showing him _how _to rub-

Dembe splashes her in the face.

Red howls with laughter when Lizzie splashes Dembe back.

/

The skin of her palms is all wrinkled up.

Red is regaling a tale of a time with a Russian ambassador, but Lizzie stopped listening after the third sentence because Russia brings up people and people bring up elephants, and she's just not in the mood to kill her own buzz with thoughts of men who want to kill men that she cares about. They stopped doing shots a couple hours back, but now she's just content to stare up at the sky and contemplate the number of stars it would take to burn up the United States. She can't remember how big most stars are, exactly. She can remember how to jack a car, but she can't remember much else from high school. Well, that's a lie.

She'd had a thing for one of her teachers, back in the day. He'd been older than her. She remembers how to slowly develop a fascination for a man that has years under his belt and baggage just _stored_ up. Liz remembers how to have a soft heart, and suddenly, sitting there by the pool at a quarter after nine, Lizzie thinks about the way Red looked kneeling in front of her, hands behind his head. Her poor, soft heart- and she looks at her palm and thinks, _I've never scarred easy. _

_ "_Elizabeth?" Dembe breaks her train of thought, and when he finally catches her attention she understands he's said her name multiple times.

_ "_Yeah, sorry," she murmurs, inclining her head. "I just got lost. What's up?"

_ "_I think I'll take my leave," he clasps her on the shoulder as he moves to go inside. "Have a good night."

"Already?" she calls after him. Red heaves heartily.

"Dembe is a very pretty princess, Lizzie. Don't you know? Has to have all his beauty sleep, or else he'll turn into a pumpkin."

Lizzie snorts at him, turning her head to the sky again. Her hair is still damp against the back of her neck, and it makes her shiver when a light, gentle breeze blows through. "Cinderella wasn't a princess, you know. Not in the beginning."

"You know your Disney trivia? I'd have never pegged you for the type."

She has him, then. "You didn't know me as a child."

She says it like a statement, like a contradiction to his previous claim. But he looks at her and he has her, then. He has her and he knows it and he presses his lips into a thin line for the longest time before saying, "You're right, I suppose. A dead father, an evil cat. Tidying up until you have _ash_ in your hair."

Red takes a swig of his drink, and she knows he's drunk, but it burns, it burns, it burns in her chest and her cheeks are burning, too when he adds, haughtily, "I'm sure you felt a connection."

"Nah," she tosses her head, and she's trying to come off as equally nonchalant and buzzed but instead it's just uncomfortable, and God, look at him. Look at him and she wants, she wants to move the short distance between them and take his jaw in her hands and make him _look her in the eye. _"I always pictured myself as Belle."

Liz expects him to go in for the kill, but he doesn't.

Instead, Red takes another sip of his drink, slow and measured this time, and closes his eyes when he swallows. He gives a small, nearly imperceptible shake of his head, and then allows the quiet between them to wax. There is no comeback for that, and it makes something heavy settle on her chest. Some gnawing in her gut.

His silence doesn't tell her a damn thing about the way he feels, but now she's shown her hand, and _fuck. _Fuck. "I should go," Lizzie goes on.

Thin eyebrows perk, his voice low and warning. "You would drive, as many as you've had?"

"I'll call a cab." Lizzie leans forward, rests her elbows against her knees and runs a hectic hand through her hair. Everything is hectic, everything is wanting to get far, far away. "I can't stay here."

"Why not?"

Lizzie shoots him a blank look, but her stomach is churning, and she wonders, fleetingly, if she's going to blow chow. That tone is so petulant, so whining, and he's looking at her like he wants an answer, and he opens his mouth to go on, but she can't, she can't have him beg her to stay. She can't, and Lizzie stands, but then sways, and he moves to grab her before she-

Goes to the concrete, hands in the air. "I'm okay. I'm good. Drunk, but great."

He doesn't move to help her back into a sitting position, doesn't even say a word. Instead, he maneuvers to sit next to her. She knows his joints have seen better days, but attitudinally he's as spry as a spring chicken. There's something that happened in the seconds before that Lizzie will never forget. There was a look on his face, when she had lost her balance. It was vulnerable and worried and so much.

So much. This is all so much, and the quiet, barely there words come as they please, to the timbre of her lips. "I think I still have a few lines in the sand."

By the glimmering pool light, by the blanket of stars and sky, he smiles at her. Adoring. "Well, we all know how pesky those can be."

Red stops himself, reigning in the demeanor, settling for composed and sincere. "Stay, Lizzie. Take one of the guest rooms. Take the couch. Take my room, if you want, but I won't let you go back to an empty hotel room like this. It's not good for you."

He doesn't mean to say it the way he does, but he does, and Lizzie thinks, "You sound like a worried parent."

She doesn't mean to say it the way she does, either, but she does, and the best way Lizzie can put it is that Red's expression and soul become utterly withdrawn, like all the life has been sucked from his eyes. Red wilts, and Lizzie does too, opens her mouth to fix it, but Jesus, they're too drunk to be talking, and-

"I sound like someone who loves you, Lizzie."

And Lizzie's mouth is still open, and her eyes are so incredibly wide, and-

"I know that must be a rare sentiment for you to come by."

She closes her mouth with a snap. All the blood rushes from her face. "That was…low," she observes, honest.

"We're even," Red whispers like it's painful to be any louder, takes another swig of his drink. Elizabeth tries not to watch the muscles in his neck work.

Standing from a sitting position, running her fingers through her hair again and begging her partially numb legs to carry her as best they can, please, please. Away, away, away. "I'm taking the couch," she throws over her shoulder.

It feels like she's running away from something important, something vital, and she hears him tell her, "Sweet dreams, Lizzie."

His voice. His _voice. _

Lizzie wishes she'd never heard how he sounded, saying that.

/

When she wakes in the morning, it's to a silver plate of breakfast and a note saying there's business he and Dembe had to tend to. Lizzie leaves the food to grow cold, promising to forget the night before and any deep, philosophical meaning behind talking of senseless references and making grim jibes with Raymond Reddington when they were in an inebriated state. It never happened. It never _happened. _

And nothing did happen, really. They talked.

It's not as if she wakes up to naked, white bed sheets, skin bared-

Nothing happened.

But even if nothing happened, she still swears she'll never drink again.

/

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When she gets the call that Harold Cooper has pulled through, she's having coffee with Red at a little café in midtown. He had been reading the paper, and she writing an email, but when the call came he paused and watched her eyes, watched her reaction to the words being said over the phone. When she hangs up, Red grins at her, showing her all of his teeth, and her entire body relaxes at the knowledge that even if every constant in her life has failed her, this, this may just go back to normal. She had leaned into Red's shoulder, basking in the feeling of hope, and two days later, she had a conversation with the Cooper.

It went a little like this:

/

"I'm glad to see you awake, sir."

"I'm glad to see you alive, Keen."

There was a shifting of movement. His voice was still a raspy rendition to Darth Vader, and his stapled throat bled out onto the bandages, made them blotted with the color of caramel syrup. Clearing her throat, Lizzie squints against the hospital's fluorescent lighting, flickering over to the natural glow of ten in the morning peeking through the pastel curtains. God, she hates hospitals. The way they smell. The way they feel.

"I have to be candid with you, Agent," Harold croaks. "I'm high as a kite right now."

Lizzie scrunches up her nose and makes her lips a thin line to stifle the laughter. She assures him with a small, restrained smile. Her superior looks at the box television in the upper corner of the room. "You seen that show on Animal Planet about the oddities of the wild kingdom?"

"No," Lizzie murmurs, squinting her sparkling blue eyes in amusement. "I don't recall I have."

"The last episode that I had the privilege to watch featured this lion and this baby goat. No. No, it was an antelope," he grumbles through, slurring the syllables.

"Oh?" she inquires, cocking an eyebrow.

"It was like you and Reddington," Harold asserts, gruff.

Lizzie stares at him.

"I remind you of a defenseless antelope?" she tries to keep her tone light, tries to give him the benefit of the doubt, but her mind can't make it any better than it sounds. This is, by far, the weirdest conversation they've had. But he also almost had his carotid severed by a piece of fishing line. So, yeah. She'll have given him the benefit of the doubt today.

"No, _no, _Agent Keen. Listen. The baby antelope had been cornered by this lion. It was supposed to get _eaten. _And then it didn't," he goes on vaguely.

Lizzie scoffs. "It outsmarted the lion, sir?"

She's just amusing _him _now. If Meera was here, it's what she would have done. But Meera is not here. Meera is not on the planet, anymore. She knows Harold has a wife whom works during the daytime, but no children to entertain him while he's laid up in a hospital bed. This is comfort for him, just a listening ear.

Cooper shakes his head again, enthralled in Lizzie's reaction.

"No," he answers her. "The lion didn't eat the antelope. It protected it."

"What?"

"It's true," he boasts. "The lion went against its instincts. The people who were filming thought the lion was going to kill the thing, and it didn't. Nuzzled the thing, God. _Adopted it. _It got protective. Wouldn't let other lions eat it. They became nature's rebellion."

"Hmm," Lizzie hums. "I guess I could see that."

She plays with her scar.

"You know what they figured out?" Harold continues, not at all fazed by her blatant nonchalance. He talks like he has a point to make. "They figured out that the lion was grieving."

Lizzie meets his eyes, finally paying more than a sliver of attention.

And then it makes sense, what he's saying. Lizzie's jaw slackens.

Harold Cooper laughs like he's told a joke, spluttering because of the stitches and lingering anesthesia. "Isn't it funny? Animal Planet has Raymond Reddington figured out more than I ever could. The old lion is grieving. He thinks you're his baby, so he's protecting you."

Lizzie face becomes the color of milk.

Then, she blinks hard and fast.

"Raymond Reddington doesn't think of me as his child."

"Maybe not consciously," he agrees, half-shrugging one shoulder. There's a buzzing in Lizzie's head, and the pattern of his hospital gown makes her vision blur. "But he feels guilty over something. I bet he reckons you'll fix the guilt. Maybe not consciously."

"Maybe not consciously," she repeats.

Lizzie thinks of the way Red's face had looked, that morning at the breakfast table.

"Maybe not consciously," she says again, voice barely a whisper, something like an admittance.

/

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The car makes a sharp turn.

Her head knocks against the window, and she comes to with a start.

There's a fuzzy, rotten taste in her mouth. The kind that only comes from lack of minty toothpaste, from hours and hours of prolonged consciousness. She couldn't have been out long. Maybe half an hour, tops. They're almost to their destination, she realizes, catching sight of a sign or two. Hazily, she translates the bleak print of French.

Across the back seat, Red is watching her movements. Lizzie meets his gaze, all fleeting, and then focuses back on the passing scenery.

No words are exchanged.

Her vision blurring at the constant stream of light against the dark flesh of night- Paris is still awake, even this late; still whole, still beautiful, still wonderfully alive. She wonders, half muddled, if she'll ever think of this city the same way again. So different than the romanticism and the advertisements. Another part of her knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she would like nothing more to leave this place and never return. The airport's terminal is still, this time of night. A private flight.

Lizzie sighs, but it breaks in the middle, half emotional upheaval, and her grasp clasps around the door handle for a split second before he stops her, warm fingers grazing her forearm. He halts her there, feels like quiet electrocution, but she's strung for the nerve endings. Lizzie shoots him a tired look.

"Dembe will get the bags," he explains, tone gentle but eyes vacant of much emotion. "Let me help you."

For some reason, she doesn't argue. She doesn't move. He's sleek and sharp in the next moment, around to her side of the vehicle before she can take five deep breaths. Lizzie prepares herself. She grasps his shoulder tightly in her hand for support. The fabric of his jacket is heavy across her palm. Expensive.

Red helps her out of the car.

In the streetlights' glow, she can see the purple and blue discoloration along the side of Red's jaw. Her battered, swollen ankle throbs, even with Red taking half her weight. A white bandage cuts across his forehead like a talisman, and Lizzie closes her eyes.

"Lizzie, do you need to use the restroom?" he asks her, pulling her from her reverie. They're inside the doors, past the check-in, hobbling along as a joint mass, and she can sense Dembe following a few feet behind. Elizabeth tries to balance on her own, and a tearing sensation rips through the top of her foot.

Lizzie nods, somehow, because yeah. Yeah, she needs to splash some water on her face. Get a handle on herself, and the past week, and the feeling of a running that lurks in her veins. The panic that isn't going away, despite the exhaustion. It's like the fear is still embedded in her pores.

It isn't until they're moving in the direction of the ladies room that she realizes Red is going in with her. She doesn't comment on it, allowing him to guide her, to half-hold her. The fluorescence of the bathroom lighting tweaks and she stops at the sink, moves away from him to regain a little bit of independence.

She sees him, in the mirror, a few feet behind her.

Hovering, protecting.

Lizzie voice crackles with weariness when she says, "I don't remember how I got here."

He takes a step forward, every nuance of his face clouding with concern, before she's quick to reiterate. "I know how I got here, Red. I know what happened. It's just hard for me to- to concentrate. To _remember."_

The voice rises in pitch, grating, whimpering, and Lizzie closes her eyes and sways and then somehow-

Somehow, Red is suddenly holding her steady, again.

She doesn't ever remember him having touched her like this before, and she can feel the thick pads of his fingers grazing her sore skin, and he smells so good. It is decided that she loves his cologne, the musk. Lizzie thinks she could fall asleep, right then, nestled in his embrace, but then he clears his throat and she feels his hand move to pat her head like a child.

"It's the concussion," he explains her behavior, and in a second, he's put distance between them again, and Lizzie is trying to decipher his expression in the meek bathroom mirror but it's hurting her head too much, and her eyelids feel like they're being weighted down by a thousand pounds of cement. "We need to get you back home."

"I don't think I've ever had a home," she slurs, and this time, she knows he can't make out a word of what she's saying. He hoists her up and they shuffle out the door. Lizzie closes her eyes, again.

/

The next time she opens her eyes, Lizzie is positioned comfortably in a leather chair, the air conditioner running full blast onto her face. She blinks awake, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting of the plane. Other than the menial buzzing of the engines, everything is utterly quiet. It takes her a long, long moment to realize Red woke her up.

He's got one hand on her thigh, squeezing, and she meets his eyes as best she can. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, a note of sincerity in his voice, of despair.

"You can't sleep for long periods of time. You might not wake up."

Lizzie licks her lips and adjusts, a splitting pain between her eyes.

"I know how a blow to the head works," comes her terse, tired reply.

The broad expanse of his chest heaves in a short, repentant sigh. Dembe is asleep, at the far end of the cabin, his mouth fallen open like a child's. Such a vulnerable position makes the burly bodyguard almost soft, and the thought brings an unexpected quirk of adoration to Lizzie's lips. Taking a picture would be preferable.

"Would you like some of this?" Red offers her a thermal.

She eyes it for moment before reaching out with half-trembling hands, bringing it to her lips. There's a hope that it's some kind of alcoholic beverage.

Boy, is she wrong.

The liquid colors her taste buds, slides down her throat, and Elizabeth Keen's eyes go as wide as saucers, brow furrowed in confusion. Red is gauging her reaction with a temperament of quiet amusement. "Good?"

"I haven't had it since I was seven years old. Eight, maybe."

"It's my preference before whisky on difficult nights," slides the firm, gruff admittance, and Lizzie could almost swear he blushes. _Blushes. _

"The infamous Concierge of Crime routinely partakes in a shot of nice, warm milk. Don't worry, I won't tell the FBI."

Seldom does she smile the way she does then, the way her lips stretch in a grin that tenderizes the bruises peppering her skin. Out of her periphery, Lizzie feels that he still hasn't removed his hand from her thigh, and she isolates the nerve endings there, the way he rubs in small circles. It makes her throat feel tight, the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. Wanting, she thinks, was never a sin.

"I suppose my gut is indicative of such indulgence," Red notes, and yes, his cheeks are pink. Another sip, and she replaces the container into the seat's cup holder. The ache that throbs in her skull when she tosses her head isn't pleasant.

"Red, no. You're…fine."

It takes a lot of courage for her to say this, in the way she says it.

His nostrils flare, his gaze falling over her battered body, and he swears, then and there, that if Ressler fails at being adequate back-up one more time, he may kill the man in cold blood. Protectiveness, iron and biting, courses through his being. Loathing, too, at the way he's put her in danger. Another Blacklister down.

Another close call.

Lizzie shirks away from the way he openly studies her, rare self-consciousness filtering in. Defend, defend, defend. There's an unnecessary, illogical urge to cross her arms over her chest and teleport to a place where she won't feel so much, and especially for him, for this man, who has all these layers, all these unseen places, and she feels like there's something unspeakably terrible about the way only she sees his weakness. Warm milk, a glistening pool, a bloody box, a gun to the head. His knees on the concrete, baring himself to her.

It's all the same kind of sentiment, and she doesn't know why. If he loves her, if he truly loves her, he loves her in a way she doesn't understand.

"Before you came into my life," she starts, grim in her reflection, "everything was simple. I had a husband, and a dog, and a baby on the way. It's funny, the things I miss. I miss the way it felt to kiss the same person every night; someone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

Pale blue orbs focus on his lips. They hold for a beat too long.

Then, Lizzie's face crumples the same way it did in the bathroom, grief hitching her breath. "I miss Hudson. I miss having the companionship of a goddamn animal. That's how pathetic I am."

She shakes her head senselessly, despite the pain, and leans back against the seat, gazing out the tiny window into the blackness of night. "You're not pathetic, Lizzie. You're hurting."

He removes his hand from her leg.

"I'll never forgive myself for the pain you feel," he tells her, so quietly.

She shivers at the loss of warmth, turns to look back at him, and he's closed his eyes, is resting his head against the headrest. "You should."

Red opens his eyes when Lizzie's dainty, chilly fingers reach out to touch the edge of his jaw. They fall to the collar of his shirt, and finally, settle for twining within his fingers, pulled out to the center armrest. She sighs, but keeps her hold firm. "I forgave you a long time ago."

/

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/

Elizabeth Keen retires to her motel room at approximately nine o'clock in the evening, and she doesn't stop to smile at the tenant at the front desk on her moderate journey throughout to premises- to the last door on the left wing, the one with the thick scratch in the wood. Marked, like she feels. Exhausted of the circumstances- but at the very least, this place doesn't have a problem with tack marks in the spackling. Her feet are sore.

The only item on her persons is a brown paper bag.

/

Slouches through the door, kicks off her heels, graces the floral bedspread with the crinkle of paper. Tonight, she won't be heading out again. Too afraid that someone will have their heads delightfully chewed off, it seems, given that Ressler and Aram have been watching her like an ugly mutt, yellowed, gnarling teeth, bark equally as passionate as the bite marks she's left in her wake. Even Red, Jesus, even Raymond Fucking Reddington hasn't been able to stand her today. That's saying something.

And see, she knows what's wrong.

It makes her so, so angry to know that even though she's been through hell and kept on going, she is reduced to hormones and agitation and banal nature at the most inconvenient of times. She tears off her jacket and moves to make quick work of uncorking the wine bottle, grabs for a plastic cup for refreshments near the sink.

The wine is warm, and she thinks of milk, thinks of-

No, not tonight.

Regardless, the headiness of the drink relaxes her muscles, and Lizzie hums, swallowing another mouthful. No time for sipping. She should be doing other things right now. She should be hunting down Berlin, should be trying to piece together the puzzle- but-

No. No.

Fuck.

Exasperated, she literally growls like an animal, shooting up from the bed and staggering off to the bathroom. Maybe a hot shower will do her some good. Maybe.

Just maybe?

/

It turns out it does. Lizzie's skin is blotchy by the time she's finished with the water that she could swear strips her hair of every good mineral. Her hair is still dripping, but she twists it up into one of her meager, thin towels. Slips on flannel pants, tattered at the bottoms. A big, cotton shirt. It's quieter, somehow, when she finds herself back upon her bed again.

Lizzie thinks about turning on some news, but knows it's no use.

She just needs to get it over with now.

Out of the way.

See, the problem with being burned by a husband that should've been a normal person but ended up cocking the cold metal of a gun against the back of her head is that it makes having meaningless one night stands incredibly strenuous. It's the cause of all this. It's all Tom's fault.

It's all Tom's fault that she resorts to lying back against the scratchy covers, her damp hair slipping from the towel, the cold making goose bumps break out all over her body, this churning in her gut. It's all Tom's fault that despite every womanly nerve ending in her body begging for use, Liz slips a hand her wiry curls to find herself chafing. Utterly, completely-

Dry.

"Shit," Lizzie curses, tearing her hand away, pulling it up to her mouth.

She sucks on her fingers before moving them back to where they were. Closing her eyes, she tries to picture the basics, the physical part of a coupling, the way it actually _feels _to be touched, to slide herself down to the hilt on a cock, but then, but then she thinks of bracing her hands against a chest that lacks hair, and how when she does it, it was Tom's chest-

Tom's face. Tom, who isn't _Tom_.

Lizzie convulses in disgust, tears leaking hotly from her eyes.

She feels like she could vomit from the strain of pent emotion.

At that moment, her phone vibrates on the table, causing her to nearly gasp from the startling. Another curse breaks the air, and she fumbles with one hand for it, seeing the name, and no. No, not tonight, not tonight, but this could be important, so, so whatever, so, damn it.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Lizzie."

"Yes," she licks her lips, exhaling through her nose.

"I was just going to check in to see how you were doing. You seemed on edge today."

"Are you calling for a reason?" she squeezes her eyes shut, anger flickering in her gut.

"Did you take my advice about the glass of wine?" he responds heartily.

Lizzie bites the inside of her cheek. "I did. Now, if you don't mind, I was having quite the peaceful evening without your interference."

"Oh, Lizzie," his voice goes, lower, gruffer. "Relax. Take my advice, and just relax. You've been working too hard."

She freezes.

Her heart beats faster, because it's almost like he knows what she's doing, and-

And Lizzie realizes, then and there, that she still has a hand down the front of her pants, resting on her thigh. Just a few more inches, just a few more, and she'd be touching herself. She'd be touching herself while listening to Raymond Reddington in her ear, and-

And it's either God or the force of nature or _something _that makes her do it.

Flick her fingers down, through her lips, and all the blood rushes to her face, her mouth parting, because, because she's-

Lizzie shakes her head at her own self, voice unsteady as she wipes her soaked fingers on the flesh of her upper thigh. "Red, I've gotta go," she forces between clenched teeth.

Red hums, God. God, he'd hum if he had his mouth on her-

"Have a restful night, Lizzie," his says crisply, and hangs up.

Lizzie flings the phone down, and her heart is thumpa thumpa thumping against her ribcage, in her ears, her head pounding- fuck, it's not supposed to be like this. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. It feels like something disgusting, because it's not supposed to be like this, but it is, and it feels good. It feels like an itch that needs scratching.

It feels like there's a big red button that's, begging for her to just _press._

Go on, Lizzie. Just try it.

/

She starts slowly, like a rabbit afraid of the skinning.

Liz cautiously runs her right hand down her stomach, slips it past the fabric again, using two fingers to press down, further, further, inside herself. Lizzie's eyes are unfocused, but she thinks about his voice, just his voice. What he'd say.

_"You're a naughty girl, Lizzie."_

Her eyes widen, head jerking. No. No, that's not it. Her fingers are still.

_"Let me see you, Lizzie. Spread your legs," _he'd whisper, that timbre, more a suggestion than a demand. Some note of longing in his voice, desperate. The words of a man who would want her, who would _want _to touch her in any way he could-

And yes. That's it.

"Yes," Lizzie moans, rubbing her clit softly, arching her hips and bracing her legs, knees bent, for better access. She imagines what it would feel like to have his weight pressing down onto her, forcing her against a mattress, solid. Never lanky, just holding. Red. Red, and the way he smells, and he'd be firm but tender, that first time.

God, Red would tease her, wouldn't he. If he's half the playful he is in real life, he'd wait until she was begging, wet, wet like she is now, and Lizzie moves her left hand down to join her other. She slips two, no-

No, she can take three. She slips three fingers inside herself while she rubs rhythmically, choking out whimpers here and there. Sparsely, she hopes the walls aren't thin, hopes that nobody can hear the way she heaves. It's good, building, building-

And, fuck, she's soaking everything, and Lizzie thinks about how he'd sound, saying something like:

"_Come, Lizzie. I want you come on my fingers."_

Lizzie shouts, alto tone breaking the ease of the motel room, shivering, mouth open, eyes closed, and she keeps moving her hand through it, keeps moving her fingers against her clit-

She opens her eyes, for once focusing on something else, like the haze over her mind the past few days is gone, but what she doesn't realize is that right above her are pictures, are tangible views of him, of _Red, _and-

And Lizzie spasms again, this time letting out a long, straining keen into the air.

She flinches away from her own body, over sensitized.

And in the scant seconds she's suspended, it hits her. It hits her what she's done.

What she's-

Oh, God.

_Oh, God._

Tearing her hands from the mess inside her pants, wiping them on the towel by her head, flinging it off the bed.

Lizzie's mouth quivers, and she's rolling onto her stomach, burying her face into a pillow. She's sobbing, then. She's shattering. She's thirty years old and she's in pieces, and it's all because of Raymond Reddington. It's all because of him.

/

.

.

.

.

.

Lizzie tries to keep her distance, after that night, but it's no use because she doesn't want him to come asking, doesn't want him to sense that there's something wrong. It's hard to meet his eyes, at the very least.

And then Red calls her over, one day. It's a bleak text, and she goes, ready for the next Blacklister. Ready for anything. Ready for anything except for what she finds. She's not prepared for _that _at all.

/

"Red?" she calls out, footsteps light and wandering throughout the safe house.

The foyer, where Dembe usually meets her, was stunningly absent of his presence.

"Hello? Is anybody here?" she wonders, shuffling through the open dining room, through the living area, and she wonders if maybe they're out at the pool again. God, she couldn't deal with that, today. After everything.

She opens her mouth one last time, but instead of words, she shrieks when something darts into her line of sight. Some creature runs smack dab into her legs. Something furry.

Something with little claws that tear at her pants.

Something _barking. _

"Oh," Lizzie murmurs. "Oh, hello."

Crouching down, she runs her fingers through the pup's soft fur, giggling when it licks at her nails. She misses Hudson. Wow. She misses this. "Lizzie."

She looks up to see him standing a few feet away, blithe on his face.

"Hey," she acknowledges, scratching the dog behind his ears. "You got a puppy?"

Red stares at her for a long moment before answering.

"He's your's, Lizzie."

Her jaw promptly hits the floor. "What?"

Taking a step forward, he cocks his head, goes to say something and then thinks better. Finally, he murmurs, "Every girl needs a dog."

And Lizzie looks down at the canine, and looks back at Red, and she thinks about Harold's words, thinks about her begging Sam, once upon a time. _"Daddy, Daddy, please. Just one dog. I'll love him and he'll always love me back and he'll protect me. Please, Daddy, please."_

Something akin to familiarity ghosts across Liz's face.

Her sallow cheeks, her understanding eyes. She looks at Red and wonders if Sam never let her have a dog because he knew she already had someone protecting her. Loving her forever. Lizzie says nothing, doesn't even say thank you.

"He adores you already," Red notices, but then thinks better of his words. "It's hard not to, really."

Lizzie looks back at him again, and doesn't find it hard to meet his eyes.

She says nothing.

/

.

.

.

.

.

Lizzie looks at Red and pets her new dog and thinks, _of all the things that have happened this summer, I still haven't told him. _This, here, then- that would have been the perfect opportunity for her to say, "I hope you don't think of me as a father does a daughter."

And he would've twisted his head, pursed his lips, imploring.

And she would've continued on, "Because the way I think of you isn't daughterly. Not even a little bit."

Lizzie would have closed her eyes against the disgust, but would have admitted to him, blindingly honest: "Not even close."

But this doesn't happen.

/

She wonders if it ever will.


End file.
